


after you comes the flood

by miriya



Series: the land between tides [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, M/M, canon compliant (with some elaboration), drinking buddies to eventual lovers, i mean it's not a slow burn but something's on fire, lucian bar crawling, lucian/galahdian classism, more tags added in the future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 17:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16685686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: Two soldiers, carving out spaces in a crumbling world.  Or: the story of how the legendarily elusive Marshal of the Crownsguard was caught up in the gravity of Nyx Ulric, and wasn't even mad about it.  (Rating is for current chapters, but fair warning for the fact that it's gonna top out here in a few.)





	after you comes the flood

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dark_Ruby_Regalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dark_Ruby_Regalia/gifts).



> So, this is a thing I've been working on off and on since around June, once intended on posting in one big chunk -- but the deeper I go, the bigger it wants to be and tbh I can't say no to the flood of cornyx inspiration so chapters it is! I'm hoping to keep it linear, but there might be one or two divergences. For Chase, who is my eternal ffxv muse and one of the brightest rays of sunshine in my life. <3
> 
> (You'll probably want to read the prior fic in this series, _the gutter and the garden_ , to get the allusions to Cor and Regis's time in Galahd, but the cliff notes version is that they went there roughly eight years ago, young Nyx got coeurl-zapped and was subsequently magicked back to health, earning his scars and an undying adoration for the two in the process.)
> 
> -
> 
> I'm a lamb upon your altar  
> I'm just a lamb when I recall  
> how I asked you  
> where you want to be buried  
> and you asked me the name  
> of the town where I was born  
> \- moonface

"You look … troubled," Cor says after their plates are cleared away, and Nyx's stare pulls back from the various clusters of well-dressed people beyond the sanctuary of their little booth, leaving him feeling vaguely abashed. "Having regrets?"

Nyx is pretty sure Cor doesn't mean the question to be as loaded as it is, so for a moment he just keeps turning his mug slowly between his hands -- watching that, then finally lifting his eyes to meet Cor's over the scratched plastic tabletop when the quiet between them starts to feel a little uncomfortable. "About coming to Insomnia?"

Cor hums a soft note that passes for vague amusement. "I meant about dinner, Ulric."

"Oh." A slip of a grin, the one Nyx uses because it makes people relax. Cor's expression doesn't change in the wake of it, and so Nyx shakes his head. "Oh, no -- not even close. Pretty much the best thing that's happened since we hit the shore, believe me." He means it, more or less, even beyond the edges of well-meant but entirely shameless flattery. Sure, his home might be a ruin and most of his family in the ground -- and yeah, maybe the shining city he'd dreamed of one day visiting turned out to be about as welcoming as a fist to the face. But hey, dinner with the near-stranger he's been thinking of for longer than is likely sane or healthy. Who remains, to this day, one of the most intriguing people Nyx has ever met.

There's something wry in the look that settles on Cor's face. "It doesn't sound like it's a terribly high bar, when you say it like that." If he's offended, he's not showing it. Nyx wonders if he would at all, or if that's just how Cor is.

He shakes his head. "Higher than you'd expect, Marshal. I didn't -- drag you out here to complain."

"Some other motive, then?"

 _Sheer brazenness_ , Nyx doesn't say. "Thought it'd be nice to spend a little time with a friendly face."

Cor laughs outright at that, a startling sound that makes some small part of Nyx curl with warm satisfaction. Their server reappears during the lull that follows to ask about dessert -- Cor orders each of them some sort of berry tart that Nyx has never heard of, with the assurance that it's absolutely worth it. He also preempts Nyx by slipping his card into the server's hand, deliberately ignoring the exasperated look Nyx turns on him.

"I _did_ invite you," Nyx says once they're alone again. "Unless I've missed the memo on how this is supposed to work on the mainland."

Cor shrugs. "It's not a date, Ulric. Think of it as a belated welcome gift -- anyway, worth it for the joke alone."

Nyx doesn't quite bite his tongue to stave off a comment about _that_ , but it's close. He opts for the safer path, instead. "Joke?"

"Can't say I've ever heard anyone describe me as a _friendly face_ before."

It's not hard to imagine the truth of that. Before, Nyx had been too young and too full of his own hot air to notice more than the pleasing shape of his face and his willingness to respond to Nyx's ribbing -- and Cor had been so obviously out of place there anyway, coolly competent and weirdly formal: King Regis's lovely, remote shadow, whose soft touch didn't feel out of place for the calluses, not in Galahd. Here in Insomnia, Nyx is beginning to understand the pressures and hard surfaces that have shaped him. Cor is perfectly suited to this beautiful, wretched city of contradictions, carrying with him a gravity that people can't help but respond to -- whether they are aware of things like _the Marshal_ or _the Immortal_ or not.

But Nyx remembers worry and the comfortable sound of a foreign heartbeat beneath his ear, patience when Nyx took more than he should have, perhaps not given without complaint, but given freely all the same. Maybe he's not the beacon of warm generosity that Captain Drautos can be when he's not being an absolute hardass, but -- he's here, isn't he? Wasting time on a rookie Glaive when he probably has a few dozen better things to do. "Saying I'm full of shit, then?"

It's satisfying, that Cor doesn't say it. That he drops his study of Nyx's face and watches his hands instead. "Best keep it quiet, or you'll ruin my reputation."

Nyx breathes a bitter laugh. "Don't worry about me; I'm Galahdian. If I say the sky is blue, I'll have half the city crawling up my ass to point out I'm just too backwards to understand the concept of _purple_." Cor's mouth tightens into a thin line, and Nyx feels like a jerk for the approximate amount of time it takes to remember that _he's_ not the asshole of this story. "Sorry. I know it's not really that bad, but--"

Cor cuts him off with a raised hand. "I don't want to hear you apologize unless you've done something to warrant it, Ulric."

Nyx almost says _I wasn't going to complain_ , but the look on Cor's face says he's expecting it, and that he's not impressed. So Nyx backs down, an act made easier by the arrival of their fancy-looking pastries, each adorned with delicate shapes that look like they've been brushed on with cream. Like something out of a magazine or a carefully lighted case -- certainly not for the likes of _him_. "Nice. Thanks," Nyx says reflexively, though the server's attention remains fixed on Cor.

"That'll do," Cor says, and though it sounds a little dismissive, there's a faint but noticeable note of anticipation in his voice that Nyx has never heard before. A favorite, perhaps, and there's something about the idea that delights Nyx, like he's uncovered a well-kept secret. It doesn't add much to his overall wealth of knowledge about Cor -- which amounts to not much at all, when he tries to tally it -- but it feels like a clue all the same, some small key to unlocking the mystery of the man.

The tart is good. Not quite as perfect as it _looks_ , but that doesn't diminish the experience. He gets the impression that Cor might disagree with his assessment, so he just hums a positive sound when he's asked his opinion. At least the silence that follows is comfortable, divorced from the frustration of Insomnian social politics, reduced to -- well. Just the two of them in a well-kept diner that aspires to higher regard than it's ever likely to receive.

(Nyx stubbornly refuses to draw parallels.)

"So," Cor says as he mops at the crumbs with his fork. "How far out did you end up?"

It takes Nyx a bit to realize Cor's asking where he's living, a little longer to gauge a neutral answer. "Found a place a few levels above the Galahdian quarter that _probably_ shouldn't going to collapse in the next year or two," he says. "Nothing like home, but -- that's how it goes. You want a tour or something?" If only.

Cor's lips quirk briefly, but he shakes his head as he finally gives up and pushes his plate away. "I was wondering if you needed a ride back, Ulric. It's getting late."

 _Oh_. "It's fine, really. Not quite a stroll through the forest, but the walk is nice."

"So no ambushes."

Nyx taps the badge on the shoulder of his jacket and bares his teeth. "Functional armor."

 

The walk really _is_ nice. It's easy enough to keep his attention on the architecture, the brightly lit signs on the highest levels advertising luxuries that are often as perplexing as they are out of the price range of anything more than the most sideways of interest. At night, the people are little more than shadows in the periphery, and Nyx's uniform insulates him from most trouble. His path winds down beneath the obscenely wide freeways, past the reach of those brilliant, glitzy lights, down to the levels where the sidewalks aren't nearly so well-kept, where the rails on the catwalks edging the concrete and stonework underpinning the upper levels are rough with flaking paint and rust.

And then lower still, down to where the light is abundant once more, all garish neons instead of stately whites and golds. Dive bars, noodle joints, bootleg merchandise shops fronted by boarded-up food carts chained in place: as much a home as he has left at this point. Nyx finds himself wondering where Cor is going for the night; whether he's got some sleek penthouse somewhere high enough to look out over the city he guards, or if the occasional jokes about the spare room in the Citadel set aside for his late nights have any substance to them. It sounds ludicrous, but Nyx knows that Cor's sense of duty runs deep, and the truth of the latter wouldn't surprise him in the least.

Nyx's key catches and sticks in the battered lock, same as it always does. He bullies it open and locks it behind him, elbowing the switch to fill the dingy gray room with dull yellow light. He reaches out, fingertips pressing briefly to the edge of a photograph as he passes his desk on the way to the kitchen for some water to chase away the lingering sweetness on his tongue.

Cor said yes. He hadn't expected that, no matter how hard he'd hoped.

Nyx wonders if he can get him to say it again.


End file.
